The Mockery Of A Flower
by destiel.spn
Summary: What if Rose Tyler's parrallel universe happened to be where the famous Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, resides in his Baker Street flat? What if Rose Tyler had taken the assistant job before retired army-man, John Hamish Watson, got the chance? A brilliant story will unravel, that's what happens. (Rated T just in case.)
1. The Mockery Of A Flower - Edited

Sherlock sat quietly on the old, worn out leather couch in his London flat, tapping away at his computer. He could faintly hear his landlady rambling on in the corner, a terribly dull conversation about the flowers she bought this morning. He internally groaned, for he did not have time to listen to her babble today.

"Get to the point, would you please?" Sherlock interjected, miffed. He snapped the laptop shut and shoved it to the floor with a thud.

"Oh, Sherlock. You should get yourself cleaned up, she'll be here in a few minutes," Mrs. Hudson replied.

"'She'?" he parroted. He was growing quite irritated waiting for her to answer his questions.

"Miss Tyler. Now I suggest you put some trousers on before she gets here," she insisted.

"Why have you invited this Miss Tyler, anyways? Scrap booking club again?" Sherlock scoffed, irritated. He rolled over to face the couch cushions, wrapping his spare sheets around him like a cocoon.

"You haven't left Baker Street for weeks, Sherlock. I had to do something about it," the old woman replied, a sad smile forming on her face.

"And you assume she can help? I do wonder how you ordinary people think," Sherlock muttered.

Mrs. Hudson didn't like seeing him like this, so distant and cut off from humanity, since he was almost like a son to her. She gave a sigh, and was about to accept defeat and return to her own flat when the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it, you just go put something on, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson murmured, moving to get the door.

"Ah, Miss Tyler! How are you?" Sherlock could hear her ask the woman.

"I'm fine, thank you. But please, just call me Rose"

Sherlock grunted loudly from where he lay, opting to ignore the pair of them. He tried in vain to ignore the sound of the chair squeaking as Rose sat down across from him.

"Now you be nice," Mrs. Hudson instructed the two of them (more specifically, him), and with that, she left.

Sherlock craned his neck to get a good look at the woman. Blonde, green eyes, jeans, and a Union Jack shirt. She was average, and that was boring him.

"Speak quickly, don't babble, and don't be boring," he advised, before returning to his previous position.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but I'm fairly certain that you've already deduced and labeled me already. I can think of a few words to describe you too, if you'd like. And don't get me started on how unrealistic your expectations are in the application form on your blog. 'Twenty-four hour silence,' really?" Rose gave a laugh, before leaning forwards and resting her hands on her jeans.

"If you didn't like it, why are you here?" Sherlock asked through gritted teeth.

"To get the job, of course," she replied, smiling a bit.

"I won't just accept just anyone," he stated.

"Good thing I'm not 'just anyone' then, Mr. Holmes"

Sherlock snorted, turning to look at her again. 'Was she was actually serious about this? She couldn't possibly think that,' he thought.

After a short moment of silence, he had decided what to do. "I suppose we'll see about that, Miss Tyler," he said, and returned his head to the plush couch cushions, slowly drifting away into his mind palace.

 _And that was how their adventure began._


	2. The Game Is On

**A/N: I DO NOT OWN Rose Tyler, Sherlock Holmes, or Lestrade. BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle do. I do own Annah, the sweaty man, and the murdered woman. I hope you enjoy this chapter, I really love it. Wow, I can't believe its only my second day and I have two stories up. If I had incorrect grammar, or spelling issues, please please PLEASE correct me. Thank you!**

"Sherlock! Wake up, we've got a client!" Rose called, knocking loudly on Sherlock's bedroom door. "Lestrade called your mobile last night. He said it baffled everyone." she added. Their last case was about two months ago, so she practically had to beg Greg for a new one. Rose heard a weak groan as Sherlock fell off of his bed, and in a few seconds, he was at the door.

He was wearing a grey shirt and long blue pants, covered by a similar shade of a blue robe. Sherlock plopped down on the couch cross-legged, and Rose sat next to him. Their client was around forty, chubby, and covered in sweat. Rose couldn't understand why, it was pouring outside. "Speak quickly." Sherlock muttered, staring at the ceiling. "Well, you see, I-I was going to the store to pick up something, an-an-and, when I got back..." He paused, blowing into a tissue loudly.

"Hurry up, getting boring." Sherlock said. "Oh, ri-right. When I got back, my wife was... dead, alone in our kitchen." he looked at the ground, crying loudly. "Where?" Sherlock asked. "332 Iris Street." the man replied, sniffling. Rose went over and patted his shoulder. "Right then. You go back home to.. whatever you have left of your life. We'll come over in an hour or so." Sherlock mumbled, getting up and pushing the door to his room open. He slammed the door shut and quickly locked it.

"I'm sorry for your loss, that's terrible. My... friend left me awhile ago." Rose tried to make it less awkward as she waited for the man to leave. "Well, I hope you had your goodbyes first. Unlike Annah and I." the man shook Rose's hand, walking himself out.

Behind Rose's field of vision, the television blurred and a _BREAKING NEWS_ heading popped up, followed by _Mysterious Police Call Box hauled to U.N.I.T._ Video of a man wearing a dark blue jacket and a red bow tie flashed on the screen.

Rose grabbed for the remote, turning the television off without even looking. She threw it on the couch as Sherlock quietly slid out of his room, dressed in his usuall attire, a large coat and a blue scarf. "Coming?" Sherlock asked, waiting in the room's door frame. "Be right there." Rose replied, looking around the kitchen for an umbrella. She quickly found it and came up behind Sherlock.

While he paused at the front door to flip up his coat collar, Rose stepped into the pouring rain and opened the umbrella. Sherlock ducked under the umbrella, quickly hailing a cab. After they climbed in and Sherlock gave the driver directions, Rose tried to fill in the silence. "I hear Molly is engaged with some new bloke, she'll probably invite you to the wedding." she said."Oh please! They won't last for long. He's a control freak, and she doesn't like being controlled." Sherlock chuckled, and Rose joined in.

They arrived to the three story house in a matter of minutes. It was surrounded by trees growing taller than the house, which seemed to loom over to the long driveway like you would see in a horror movie. Well, it kind of was a horror movie, for whoever was murdered. Rose payed the cab-driver and led the way towards the front door, where they ducked under crime-scene tape.

The door creaked open without Rose having to turn the nob. The inside of the house was barely lit, only a few candles on the walls illiminated the room partially. Rose felt like someone was watching her, and she kept looking over her shoulder. She was not afraid of the dark, but this house was just plain out creepy.

"Greg? You here?" Rose called out. The house seemed to be empty on this floor. Greg Lestrade came down the stairs to their left, wearing a blue zip-up suit to keep his DNA off of the crime scene. He stopped half way down the stairs, waving for them to come with. They walked up the stairs, past a few rooms, and into a large kitchen where a woman sat on a wicker chair, blood had dripped from multiple stab wounds in her stomach, chest, and arms.

"I was wondering when you'd get here. It took you long enough." Philip Anderson muttered, pulling his gloves on over the sleeves of his suit, which matched Lestrade's. When Anderson looked up to see Rose, he quickly wished he hadn't said anything. "And who's this?" he asked, watching her. "I'm Rose Tyler, Sherlock's assistant friend." Rose replied, offering a kind smile. "Friend? Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends." Anderson snorted. Sherlock had zoned out of the entire conversation, and was looking around the room. "Well, why not?" She asked, raising an eye-brow at him.

"Because he's Sherlock." was his only reply. "Shut up. Everyone shut up. Don't speak." Sherlock ordered, from his hunched over position on the floor.

Sherlock walked calmly over to her carcass, examining everything very carefully. "Her husband said that the doors and windows were all locked, and nothing was broken, so this isn't a robbery." Lestrade explained. Rose pulled a pad of paper out of her pocket and jotted all the details down. She sketched a drawing of the woman, and the room she was in for even more details. Thankfully, Rose was a very good artist. The dried blood around her veins, and the sticky crimson stains on the chair made her drawings look like the real thing.

Everyone in the room -even Anderson- stayed quiet to wait for Sherlock's ideas, as he poked her skin with a gloved finger.

 **A/N: That was the second chapter! I hope you liked it! I know I did. It's actually really fun to write stories involving murder, for some reason. If you're wondering how someone got in the house, do NOT worry. The details haven't been gone over yet, so you don't know unless you were the murderer... I hope not, though. :P**


	3. Deductions And Secrets

**A/N: I do NOT own Sherlock Holmes, Rose Tyler, Sally Donovan, Greg Lestrade, Philip Anderson, or the manager guy (I have no idea what his name is). I DO own Annah and the cabbie. Please enjoy the third chapter to The Mockery Of A Flower! I had to resist the urge to punch Sally and Anderson a couple of times. Any ideas for the next chapter? Leave a review, or don't. :)**

"The woman, Annah, was stabbed to death long before her husband got home.." Sherlock paused, feeling the consistency of her blood. "I'd say about two, three hours." he said, as he took the gloves off. "That can't be right, he said he was at the store for thirty minutes." Anderson interjected, he always loved to prove Sherlock wrong.

"He was obviously lying. Have you seen him? Rose, when he came to the flat, was he wearing a wedding ring? No. Seems a little too early to move on, don't you think? His ring finger showed stretch marks where his sweaty fingers had hurried to take his ring off many times before. He has a large string of lovers, but he isn't careful about it." Sherlock deduced quickly.

"Is he our murderer then?" Lestrade inquired, hoping his duties would be finished so he could go home and do what he pleased. "Ahhh... no." Sherlock replied, looking for clues in the room. "Rose, I'll need photographs of this room, the kitchen, the body, the house's exterior, and anything else that looks promising." he said.

"Already done." Rose handed the notebook which held all of her sketches to Sherlock. He skimmed through the pages, "Good, very detailed." he praised her, pocketing the booklet inside his jacket.

"Well, who is the killer?" a woman's voice asked from the room next to the kitchen which they were in. "And why is the psychopath always informed before me?" Sally Donovan questioned, as she walked towards the four. "No. Not a psychopath. High-functioning sociopath, yes." Sherlock corrected her. "But, who did murder Annah?" Lestrade restated the unanswered question.

"I don't know yet." Sherlock replied, taking a vial out of his pocket and holding it under the still dripping blood. He filled it to the half way point, then screwed on the cap and put it back in his coat's breast-pocket. Anderson and Sally snickered in unison, which Sherlock and Rose gladly ignored.

Sherlock walked down the stairs and out the door without a word said, and without waiting for Rose either. Rose was about to follow him, but a hand grabbed her wrist and held her firmly. She turned to face Sally. "Don't trust Sherlock Holmes. I fear that one day Sherlock will be standing over a body, and he will have been the person to have put them there. Stay away from him, unless you want to end up as the body." she advised Rose.

"He wouldn't." Rose said, yanking her wrist away from Sally Donovan, and running to follow Sherlock. He had been leaning against the wall next to the front door, waiting for her. "So, where to?" Rose asked as she slid in the cab next to Sherlock. "Lunch?" he answered her question with another. "Alright, but you're paying." Rose replied, grinning.

The trip to the diner was longer, and way more expensive. Sherlock bent over to the driver's side of the cab, whispering something into the cabby's ear. "Don't think I didn't see your little hit and run accident out there." Sherlock backed away from the window and the cab immediately sped off.

The instant Rose and Sherlock sat down, they were greeted by the smiling owner. "Hello! What would you like? Anything for Sherlock Holmes, and his lovely companion." his smile never faded as he spoke. "Oh, no. He's not my boyfriend." Rose quickly corrected him, trying to hide the frown upon her face. She was once a companion... He nodded in response, and took their orders, promising to return with the food.

"So... do you have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? I'm just curious." Rose asked, tapping on the table with her index finger and her middle finger. "Relationships are... not my expertise." Sherlock replied. He was stairing above her head, looking at something in the window. Rose wondered if he could conclude things about living people, as well as crime-scenes. As if Sherlock was able to read her mind, he set his eyes on her's.

"Hmm... Judging by your clothes, I'd say you're either around here or admire this country, but your accent is too strong to say you weren't born here. There's a wedding ring and a key dangling from ribbon on your jacket, since you're too young to marry, it must be your father's. He must have died a long time ago, since you haven't touched it since this morning. You have touched the key, but you haven't used it. Going by that and when you shuddered at the word 'companion' I'd say you're either disgusted of me, or have lost a lover. I say the latter, since you mentioned to Annah's husband that your 'friend left you awhile ago' but I don't think you meant he died, because of the way you sighed as you trailed off, you must've been thinking of what he could be doing right now. He must not live around here, someone as ambitious as you would have surely gone back to him. No, he must be a traveller. He left you behind and you're wondering if it was your fault." he concluded.

Rose stood up as the manager finally came back, she pushed past him and almost knocked the plates out of his hands as she ran out the door. "Was it something I said?" Sherlock wondered, asking the manager, who had secretly been eavesdropping on their conversation. "It was, indeed. You might want to apologize to the girl, before she leaves town." The manager replied, setting the plates down anyway.

 _Apologize? What had I done wrong? That was what she wanted after all, she wanted to know if I was truthful._ Sherlock thought to himself as he walked out after Rose, accidentally leaving his coat behind.

 **A/N: It's the end of the world! SHERLOCK LEFT BEHIND HIS COAT, OH NO. Haha don't worry, everything will be fine. Sort of. Hehehe. I hope you liked this chapter. I'm gonna go watch Sarah Jane Adventures now, bye-bye.**


	4. Sweet Peppermint Kisses

**A/N: I do not own the unnamed John Hamish Watson, Ms. Hudson, Rose Tyler, or Sherlock Holmes. BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle do. I wish I did, though. Enjoy! I hope you like it :)**

Sherlock didn't bother to hail a cab, as he walked briskly around the corner and towards 221B Baker Street. He heard the door slam as it opened before he got close to their flat. Sherlock slowed, hesitating before he went inside the door, silently hoping an angry Rose was nothing like an angry Molly. "Is everything alright, Sherlock? I heard a bang." Ms. Hudson asked, as he stepped into the flat.

He ignored Ms. Hudson and stood in front of Rose's bedroom door, first trying to turn the handle, then knocking rather loudly. "What's gone on since you two left?" Ms. Hudson inquired, facing Sherlock with a frown, which he also ignored. "Rose, I would like you to know that I did not mean to offend you in any way... My only desire was to learn more about you.." he paused, hearing Rose's door unlocking.

"What I'm trying to say is, well... I'm sorry." Sherlock apologized, leaving Ms. Hudson smiling as she watched the scene. She thought it was wonderful to see him acting like an actual person, for once. The door's handle turned slowly, and the door had soon swung inwards. Rose had no idea what to say to Sherlock Holmes, the strange man who seemed to have no human emotions, yet here he was, doing something he had never done to anyone before.

Rose took all she couldn't or wouldn't say and turned it into a kiss between the two of them. Sherlock didn't know how to react. He had only ever kissed one person, the woman at the morgue, Molly Hooper. But that was a long story, too long to include in this wonderful moment.

Their kiss was electrifying, and Sherlock felt as if a million volts were coursing through his viens. Sadly, as soon as he could feel the peppermint coolness on his lips, it was over. And the entire time Sherlock had stood there, like a gargoyle atop the building's of Paris.

Rose smirked and walked into the kitchen, Ms. Hudson in tow. Sherlock soon heard their whispers, followed by quiet giggles. He stood quietly, shocked to the core. Sherlock had never thought anyone could have any particular interest in him, especially someone like Rose Tyler.

"Are you going to stand there all day? Because I never got to eat, so I'm going out." Rose said, peeking around the corner. "Ms. Hudson, why don't you come with? It would sure be fun." Rose asked, almost hypnotizing Ms. Hudson with her green eyes. Sherlock put his hand up to his lips, leaving it there. "Oh, alright." she finally gave in, after a few moments of staring.

The two pushed past Sherlock, who shook himself out of his daze and followed. They went to a restaurant closer to the flat, and sat together in one crowded table. No one said anything for a long while, and the service wasn't fast like everywhere else. "Sherlock, dear. What ever happened to your jacket?" Ms. Hudson asked. He was about to say he left it at another diner when a man came up to their table.

He was an army doctor returning to London because of a shot to his left shoulder. He was stationed in either Afghanistan or Iraq, Sherlock quickly concluded safely inside his own head. The man was out of breath, and held a dark fabric to his side.

"Here. This is yours, I presume? You left it in Teirra Brindisa." the man extended the cloth out to Sherlock, which he saw was his jacket. He grabbed for it, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked. Rose kicked his shin under the table, "He meant thank you. Sorry for your trouble." she apologized for Sherlock as he winced.

The man gave a confused smile before leaving, and walking out to an impatient woman on the street. "Come on, Sarah! It was the right thing to do!" everyone in the diner could hear their bickering. "No, the right thing to do was stay and eat dinner! He didn't bother to remember it anyway, so why help him get it back?" the woman let out an angry puff of air and stomped off, her high heels clicking loudly on the sidewalk.

Oddly, the man still ran after her.

Ms. Hudson thought he was a very great man, who'd make a very good husband to someone someday. The normal chatter quickly returned to the restaurant as the couple left the window's view-point.

Finally, a waiter came to the small group of three's table. He gave everyone water, and took their orders. Sherlock hadn't wanted anything. "Food takes my mind off of what's important, and I don't need to stay focused." he had said. Sherlock pulled the sketches out of his pocket as Ms. Hudson and Rose ate, carefully dissecting the pictures for clues.

"What is that?" Rose asked, pointing to a small door in the kitchen. "It's a dumbwaiter, used to bring food or supplies from one floor to another. They are usually large enough to fit a..." Sherlock trailed off. "'A' what, Sherlock?" Ms. Hudson tried to get him to focus. "A teenager... or, a short adult." He finished, shoving the notebook back in it's place, leaving a few bills on the table, and walking out of the diner with the swagger of a king.

"You go catch up with him, I'm not as young as I used to be." Ms. Hudson offered a kind smile as Rose raced down the street after Sherlock. He had just closed the door to a cab and was about to pull off the curb when she swung the door open and plopped down next to him. "What is it?" Rose asked him. "The dumbwaiter looks big enough to house a thin man and his weapon." Sherlock replied, looking out the cab window.

"But all the doors were locked, the windows too." she countered, watching him breathe shallow breaths on the pane. "Rose, anyone could break into anywhere. It's just a matter of timing." he said, getting his mobile out. "Phone Lestrade. If he says he's busy, tell him I'm dying." Sherlock muttered, still staring out the window.

 _Yeah, and then he'll take selfies with your corpse._ Rose thought as she dialed Greg's number. He picked it up on the last ring, "What now, Sherlock?" Greg mumbled, and Rose heard shifting in the background. "It's me, Rose. Sherlock thinks he's got a clue." she replied, trying to sound extra nice.

"Be there in ten, okay? Kind of busy at the moment." Greg said, ending the call. Not before Rose heard heard a woman call him "Greggy Boy," though. Good thing Sherlock hadn't been on the other line, or that would have been the new gossip at Scotland Yard.

 **A/N: I hope you liked this chapter! So much more will be revealed, soon, my friends. Byeeee!**


	5. Four Letters Ahead

**A/N: I don't own Philip Anderson, Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, Rose Tyler, or Mycroft Holmes. BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle do. I HOPE YOU LOVE THIS CHAPTER AS MUCH AS I DO! HAPPY READING!**

The cab ride was long and tiring, given it was 9:54 and both Sherlock and Rose were exhausted from a day filled to the brim with murder, kisses, and dinner. When they reached the house, Rose nudged Sherlock to try and wake him, before she payed the cabbie and slammed the door loudly.

Sherlock's eyes opened wide, though he quickly realized where they were and why they were there. He got out of the car and walked up the porch, wondering if it would be possible to break open a window to get inside. "Shouldn't we wait for Lestrade?" Rose asked, leaning against the house. "No. Lestrade will bring Anderson. He is annoying, and he takes my attention off of the task at hand." Sherlock said, going around the back of the house.

Rose quickly followed, for she didn't want to be alone beside a house near the woods without any sunlight. She felt as though someone was watching her as Sherlock tugged on the back door's handle. Finally, the wood gave a low sigh and the door opened. Rose scurried inside first, glad to get away from the forest.

The room had changed since they had left, the blood was cleaned off the floors and police tape had been put up, which Sherlock walked past, oblivious. They could both hear an engine turning off in the yard, followed by quiet chatter. "Sherlock, what are you doing in here?" Lestrade angrily cursed under his breath, running up the stairs two by two.

"You, Sherlock, are breaking and entering. You'd better have some good clues." he sighed. Sherlock bent over in front of the dumbwaiter, about to open the door. Rose and Greg had stood behind him, hoping no one was inside at the moment. He opened the dumbwaiter door, revealing... nothing. Sherlock peered inside, and was about to call it quits when he looked up. A smile curled on his lips.

"What is it?" Rose asked, waiting patiently for him to marvel at the fact that he knows more than the whole of Scotland Yard. "Q-S-V-M-E-V-X-C" was Sherlock's reply. "And that means...?" Lestrade wondered out loud. "Well, it's obviously some kind of cipher." he said, returning from the dumbwaiter and looking at the two of them. "Back to Baker Street, I guess?" Rose and Sherlock started for the stairs, but she tripped on a lump in the carpet and fell. Lestrade was quick to help her up, and he tried flattening the carpet, but it wouldn't go down. Something was under it.

Rose flipped up the carpet, and grabbed a crumpled up piece of paper out from under it. _Four letters forwards, a truly fun game. Four letters forwards, I'll tell you my name._ Lestrade and Sherlock read over Rose's shoulder. "What is that supposed to mean? And what murderer purposely leaves clues for us to find?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock racked his mind palace, thinking quietly. "Four letters forwards is a shift cipher... The letters spell the murderer's name." he explained, yawning loudly. "Okay, enough playing detective for one day, Sherlock. Leave this to the professionals." Anderson said, watching them from afar.

"Is that's what you call yourself now?" Sherlock pushed passed Anderson and went down the stairs. Lestrade and Rose followed him out onto the porch, where they stopped. "Go ahead to the flat, I'll be there in twenty minutes." Sherlock told Rose, who nodded and walked towards a car waiting out front.

 _Maybe Greg called a cab for me?_ Rose thought as she opened the door to a black car that resembled a limousine. Ten minutes later, the car had parked near an abandoned factory. "This isn't Baker Street, I think you went the wrong way." Rose pointed out. "Come inside, Sherlock is waiting for you." the driver said, going out and walking towards the door to the building.

Rose wondered why Sherlock would be in a enormous abandoned building, but she went inside anyway. If Sherlock really was in there, she wouldn't want to disappoint him. The driver, a man, walked Rose inside a pitch-black room, then left her alone. Well, she thought she was alone. "Hello. Rose Tyler." an unfamiliar voice welcomed her, as a man stepped through the shadows. He leaned on an umbrella, and Rose thought it was odd because, for once, it wasn't raining, unlike this morning. "Who are you?" Rose asked, hoping she didn't look as scared as she felt.

"I am no one. Forget about me. I would just like to know about your current relationship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes." the man replied, smiling. "I'm just his friend." Rose said truthfully, still confused as to why she was here. "Sherlock doesn't have friends. He never has." the man twirled his umbrella.

"What in the world is with everyone telling me I cannot be his friend? There's nothing wrong with Sherlock, he just keeps to him self." she sighed. "I would like you to keep me up to date with Sherlock Holmes, if you could. I could pay you, if you like." the man ignored Rose's previous statement. "Why would you want to know?" Rose asked, her tone a bit rude for her liking. "I am just concerned about him." he replied.

Rose shook her head, "No." She quickly left the abandoned factory and walked home, no longer trusting cabs.

She returned home at around twelve at night, where she found Sherlock lying three steps up the stairs, fast asleep. Rose let out an immense yawn, and went to sleep on the first step, beside her best and only friend.

 **A/N: YAY! They figured it out! I'm so tired and happy because I put up two chapters in one day. (I think) Please tell me if my grammar is off, because I really need a grammar check button. :P Hope you liked this chapter! Also, please review so I know if I should continue, thanks! ~Peace Out~**


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